


you had me at

by toomoon (jjjat3am)



Category: GOT7
Genre: M/M, Mark Tuan/hot Italian bodyguard, The Author Regrets Everything, Yes you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 22:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17434925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/toomoon
Summary: "Do you speak English?""Yes, I do.""I'm your bodyguard.""Oh! Nice to meet you."or,the unlikely love story of a Korean idol and his handsome Italian bodyguard, in the backdrop of Milan Fashion Week.





	you had me at

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, this is just who I am as a person. 
> 
> Context:  
> Mark seemed to charm the handsome Italian bodyguard assigned to him during Milan Fashion Week. Here's their [first meeting](https://youtu.be/rEghMiFfKlE?t=37) and [subsequent cute moments](https://twitter.com/haetbitmark/status/1084280339059494912) and the [Thread That Started It All.](https://twitter.com/miracletuan/status/1084316786101751808) And now here we are, with a new otp.
> 
> Antonio is a made up name, chosen after googling 'whats the most Italian name ever'.
> 
> Also, I hope I don't need to say this, but please don't tweet this to anyone involved. It's for fun and I hope you have fun reading it.

 

 

The private security firm pays better than his police job did. There’s also a certain glamour to it that breaking up bar fights late into the am just can’t compare with. Antonio takes pride in his job as a personal bodyguard. He keeps his body in top shape, always combs his hair and occasionally ducks into a beauty salon, pretending he doesn’t have a longstanding appointment. He dresses in black, subtle and chic, without seeming too expensive.

 

He calls his mother, every Sunday. He doesn’t go to church often enough. He’s a professional, always. No matter how beautiful, how glamorous, how powerful his client, he never lets his emotions get involved.

 

He doesn’t expect anything different the afternoon he gets the file on his new assignment from his superior. It says Mark Tuan at the top, filled with pictures airbrushed to perfection and age he wishes he still was.

 

Just another job.

 

*

 

On any given day, Milan exists in a state of controlled chaos, compounded by loud voices, louder car horns and the sun reflecting too bright through huge modern windows of downtown buildings.

 

Milan Fashion Week heightens the everyday tensions of the city, at least in the parts of it that it touches. The fancy hotels are brimming with glamorous people as the streets fill with harried looking assistants that look like they haven’t slept in days and every shop in the city seems to run out of cloth at the exact same time.

 

It’s chaos, but it’s not the worst it could be. That dubious honor belongs to the _Derby della Madonnina._ You haven’t seen chaos if you haven’t been in Milan on the night of the Milan derby. Antonio has had the unfortunate honor of working it in uniform. After that, the small gathering of wide-eyed young women standing at Mark Tuan’s arrival gate is fairly easy to navigate. None of them seem on the verge of throwing a scooter at him, which is already better than any Inter fan he’s had to interact with.

 

Just then, the glass door to baggage claim slides open, the sounds of camera shutters almost louder than the flight announcements over the airport intercom. Antonio signals someone who must be the manager, looking harried and competent with several suitcases, and falls into step with Mark Tuan.

 

He angles his body to block the crowd while attempting to not block the cameras at the same time. There’s a science to it. They pass through the crowd, Mark Tuan walking poised and confident in an unfamiliar airport. Antonio moves closer and catches a flick of his eyes in his direction.

 

“Do you speak English?” Antonio asks, in a tone he’s been careful to cultivate as far from an Italian accent as possible. He never entirely feels like he’s succeeded.

 

Mark’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. Antonio is forced to admit that the pictures he’d been shown may not be as airbrushed as he’d previously thought. The other man is striking in person.

 

“Yes, I do,” he says, in an accent that sounds straight from an American film. Antonio mentally revises his assumptions. A Chinese last name, but a Korean musician, with an American accent-

 

“I’m your bodyguard,” he explains, offering a hand. Mark’s face fills with understanding. He smiles slightly and shakes his hand. His handshake is firm, but his hands are cold. Antonio makes a mental note to ask the driver to turn up the heating in the car.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Mark says, then gets distracted by someone calling his name, turning around to send the gathered fans another effortlessly beautiful smile. Antonio hurries on ahead to open the door to the sleek dark Audi so Mark can sit.

 

The manager catches up to them, slightly out of breath, and Antonio helps him load the suitcases in the trunk. A moment later, he’s sliding into the passenger seat and the car starts moving.

 

He adjusts the heat just a bit higher, chancing a look in the rearview mirror. Mark isn’t shivering, but he can’t be to warm in his thin coat. He’s less put together away from the eyes of his fans. There are dark circles under his eyes and he slouches in his seat, curling in on himself. He seems more human like this, though still lovely.

 

Antonio scans the traffic outside while making casual small talk with the driver. He’s known him for a while and they often get put on jobs together. He’s a reliable driver in a sea of notoriously unreliable Italian drivers. Antonio settles back, checking the backseat in the mirror. The manager is typing something on his phone, but surprisingly, Mark is looking to the front. Their eyes meet and Mark smiles, a little shyly.

 

Antonio smiles back, and because Mark doesn’t look away, he decides he might as well engage in conversation.

 

“Have you been to Milano before?” he asks, holding Mark’s eyes in the mirror, seeing them widen slightly. Mark shakes his head, breaking the eye contact.

 

“No,” Mark says, his gaze drifting to the window and the city outside. “It looks interesting. I’d like to see more of it.”

 

He won’t be able to see much, Antonio knows. He’s memorized Mark’s schedule, and between the fashion shows, photo shoots, and glamorous parties, there isn’t a lot of time to go sightseeing.

 

So Antonio makes a decision. His request to the driver barely earns him a raised eyebrow. He’s a trusted coworker and the route is suggesting will lengthen the journey by only ten minutes. It has the added benefit of taking them through the edges of old town Milan and its majestic buildings seen from a distance are still better than not seeing them at all.

 

He turns around in his seat to point out the window. Mark shoots him a startled glance but obediently follows his finger. The designers can wait. Antonio can steal a few minutes to brag about his city.

 

 

*

 

 

Mark is safely delivered to his hotel eventually. The staff isn’t too pleased by the delay, but the way Mark’s eyes are brighter by the end of the impromptu tour makes it easier to forget about the scolding that Antonio will likely have to listen to later.

 

He’ll admit that he shadows Mark more closely after that, even when no one in and around the hotel looks like they’re about to pose any danger. Somewhere around the time that Mark had teased him about his knowledge of medieval churches, Antonio had grown protective. It’s not necessarily a bad thing to feel about the person you’re hired to protect, but it’s unusual for him.

 

He watches a video of Mark’s group while waiting for him to finish settling into the hotel room, and he only feels a little bit embarrassed about it. The music is catchy, and the dancing looks impressive.

 

It also means that he recognizes Mark’s band member Bambam as soon as he sees him. Granted, he would have guessed anyway, from the smile that spreads across Mark’s lips as soon as they catch sight of each other.

 

Antonio fades into the background, scanning the surroundings instead of watching the reunion. There’s a small crowd of fans gathered outside, clutching at their albums and cameras. He guides Mark past them, but he stops, signing and shaking a few hands. He sends the fans a smile as he waves goodbye that seems to cause a collective intake of air and more than a few vacant expressions.

 

Antonio is sympathetic. He thinks he might know how they feel now.

  


*

 

There’s a system to looking out for your client at parties, while still making sure that you’re maintaining your distance and not accidentally trodding on the toes of other celebrities. For Antonio, it means he’s standing in the shadows, keeping a clear visual on Mark and Bambam.

 

He knows the bodyguard assigned to Bambam, and he doesn’t like him much. Even now, he’s slacking on the job and flirting with a waitress. So it falls to Antonio to look out for them both. They make it easy for him, hanging out together, consuming a steady diet of finger foods and white wine. He sees Bambam singing at some point and Mark filming, smile wide in the illumination of the screen. In the half-dark of the venue, they look their age.

 

They’re not drunk by the time Antonio escorts them back to the hotel, but they are a little tipsy, their voices a little louder.

 

Mark stumbles over a hole in the pavement and Antonio reaches out to steady him with a hand on the small of his back. It earns him another shy smile. He looks up in time to catch Bambam’s gaze sharpening behind his ridiculously expensive orange sunglasses. It makes him step back, feeling caught.

 

Bambam takes Mark’s elbow and pulls him in front, ducking his head to whisper in his ear. Antonio couldn’t decipher it even if he heard it, but it makes Mark flush an attractive shade of pink as both of them look back to stare at him.

 

He’s more than willing to let Bambam’s bodyguard take charge of him after that.

 

*

 

The walk to Mark’s hotel room is quiet, after having left Bambam a few doors down. Antonio keeps catching Mark glancing over at him, then quickly looking away. If it were any other situation, he’d have no problem reading intent in those little glances, but as it is, Antonio keeps his mind carefully blank.

 

There’s an awkward pause as they reach the door. Mark is looking at the floor. Antonio is looking at Mark, trying to find any sort of clue that will tell him what he’s supposed to do now.

 

“Well,” Mark breaks the silence suddenly, “goodnight, I guess.”

 

Antonio nods, mostly to himself, because Mark is looking at the door. The tips of his ears are very red. “Okay,” Antonio says, “you know how to reach me if you need anything?”

 

Mark has his number in his phone, programmed earlier when things didn’t feel quite so...tense. He nods.

 

“And my room is just down the hall, 7187,” Antonio says. It’s a smaller double room he’s sharing with Bambam’s bodyguard. It’s not his cozy apartment in the old city center, but he’ll manage for the night.

 

Mark nods again. “Okay, goodnight,” Antonio finishes, feeling like he’d just missed something, but not quite knowing what. The door closes behind Mark with a click. Antonio loiters in the hallway for a while, convincing himself that he’s making sure that it’s safe, before retreating to his shared room.

 

*

 

Half an hour later, there’s a knock on the door of the hotel room. Antonio looks up from where he’s watching yet another Got7 video on his phone. Their music is really catchy and it’s not like he’s in the fan compilation side of youtube. Yet.

 

He gets up to look through the peephole, then wrenches the door open so quickly it almost rattles off its hinges. Mark, standing in the hallway, looks up at him with wide-eyes, fist raised mid-knock.

 

“What’s wrong?” Antonio asks, on the edge of frantic. He knew he should have checked the room before they parted, maybe there was a stalker in there and- “Are you hurt anywhere?”

 

“No, I-” Mark says, shaking his head. A moment later his face changes into understanding. “Nothing bad happened. Just, are you busy?”

 

There’s a plaintive tone in his voice that has Antonio grabbing his keycard and closing the door on the other bodyguard, thankfully already snoring in his bed. The hallway feels isolated, voices muted by the thick carpets, but that’s misleading and he’s careful to keep his voice low.

 

“How can I help?” Antonio asks, searching Mark’s face, as it remains stubbornly unreadable to him. Mark’s eyes seem clearer at least, and his demeanor seems serious, but not scared.

 

“I wanted to ask if you…” Mark trails off, visibly steeling himself, then speaks again. “If you wanted to have a drink with me.”

 

Antonio isn’t supposed to drink on the job unless not doing so would make him stand out too much. “The hotel bar-” he starts.

 

Mark cuts him off. “I was thinking of the mini bar in my room,” he says, boldly, making eye contact. “It has a pretty decent selection.”

 

In a hotel like this, the mini bar probably has better liquor than Antonio ever gets for himself. But it’s obvious that the drink is so far from the point it might as well be served on the moon.

 

The thing is, Antonio has had training for this kind of situations. Hours and hours of workshops about not getting involved with your client. His company strictly forbids it and it could potentially put his job at risk if he does. It’s not even the first time he’d been in this situation. Not for a second has he ever been tempted to risk it.

 

Not until Mark Tuan, standing in the hallway of an expensive hotel, face devoid of makeup, but with a hint of stubble and his bare feet poking from underneath his bright orange sweatpants, too big shirt hanging off his shoulders.

 

Antonio is quiet for too long. The hopeful smile falls off Mark’s face and he turns away. “This was a stupid idea,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

 

“Okay,” Antonio says abruptly. Mark turns around, startled. “I’d love a drink.”

 

It’s a delight, watching the realization spread across Mark’s face. The hard lines around his eyes soften, then crinkle as his mouth upturns into a smile.

 

“Really?” he asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.

 

“Yes,” Antonio says, then adds, carefully, “if you still want to?”

 

Mark nods. For a moment, they stand there, just smiling at each other, before a noise somewhere down the hallway interrupts them. Mark seems to hesitate for a moment but reaches out to take Antonio’s hand where it’s lying slack at his side. His fingers are cold but his grip is firm as he tugs Antonio down the hall.

  


*

  


The next morning is a little strange.

 

Bambam’s expression hardens the moment he sees Antonio fall into step behind Mark as they head out for their photoshoot. He doesn’t look mad, just alert. Antonio has no doubt that he knows, and it’s confirmed further when Bambam whispers something in Mark’s ear that causes his ears to go bright red and earns Bambam an elbow to the ribs.

 

Antonio catches him watching them all through the day, typing furiously on his phone whenever Mark drifts to Antonio’s side during breaks in the shooting, which happens a lot. It’s surprising, how easily Mark gets away with dodging his manager to ask Antonio a question about the street they’re on, or a building they see.

 

Antonio doesn’t consider himself an especially talkative person (especially compared to the _nonnas_ in his neighborhood, who seem to subsist on a diet made entirely of gossip and homemade gnocchi), but Mark is an excellent listener. It helps that he seems to be interested in everything Antonio says, nestling against his side in a way that looks entirely appropriate for the camera but lets Antonio lend him some of his body heat.

 

It does make his face warm when he overhears the make-up artists exclaiming over Mark’s dark circles, knowing he's responsible for them.

 

He gets a visceral thrill at being able to drape the big fluffy coat over Mark, smoothing it down over his shoulders, while knowing that he pressed kisses to them just last night, dragging his mouth over the knobs of his spine. Mark shakes from the cold in clothes that are fashionable and more expensive than Antonio cares to remember, but very inappropriate for the weather.

Antonio resists the urge to steal him away to somewhere it’s warmer, but it’s a near thing. He compensates by sticking close to Mark instead, standing in his line of sight just for the way his smile minutely widens whenever their eyes meet.

 

 

*

 

 

They get one last moment alone as the photo shoot wraps up, Bambam running interference with the manager after sending an entirely unsubtle wink in their general direction. Instead of scanning the crowd for potential threats, Antonio is standing with Mark in the flimsy privacy of a marble pillar, blocking off the harsh wind, while resisting the urge to reach out and hold his hand.

 

“I have to go to the airport after this,” Mark says quietly. Antonio knows - he’s memorized his schedule. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Antonio says, instead of something stupid like ‘Please, don’t leave,’. “I wish you and your group continued success in the future. I’ll be your fan from now on.”

 

The compliments feel stilted and awkward in his mouth, but they make Mark smile.

 

“Should I sign something for you, then?” he asks.

 

Not asking for autographs is another rule but at this point, they’ve broken so many already that one more doesn’t feel like a big deal. Antonio pulls out the little notebook he uses to keep track of all of his contacts and daily observations that go into his report at the end of the day and hands it over.

 

Mark uses the wall as a surface to write. Antonio watches his face, the soft lines that appear on his forehead and the shape of his mouth as he blows on the ink so it dries faster. In the bright sunlight reflecting off the marble, he looks like something from a dream.

 

And then the manager is calling Mark’s name and the world spins back into motion.

 

The rest of it is a hurried blur. There’s no time to take the scenic route to the airport because Mark and Bambam have to catch their flight. Once there, there are crowds to deal with and luggage to juggle and before Antonio completely realizes it, they’re at the departures gate. Mark signs a few albums and he shakes a few hands.

 

Antonio presses a hand between his shoulder blades to guide him through the crowd safely, feels his chest ache when Mark leans into it. Hidden by their coats, he feels Mark reach to squeeze his hand one last time.

 

Mark graces the gathered crowd with one last devastating smile, and with a wave of his hand, he’s gone, disappearing towards a life that Antonio can barely imagine.

 

It isn’t until the evening, when Antonio is comfortably settled in his old town apartment, that he thinks to look at his notebook. Underneath his elaborate signature, Mark has written a long string of numbers and an email address.

 

Antonio already knows he won’t write. After all, it was just another job.

 

It had to be.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You're free to come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/taeshedwigtat). 
> 
> Also fun fact! Serie A fans have a history of throwing around scooters at their opposition, though the particular incident I was thinking about didn't involve Inter fans and the scooter was set on fire first.


End file.
